


kitchen sink

by revoleotion



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Character Study, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revoleotion/pseuds/revoleotion
Summary: Hux survived. He has nothing left in the galaxy, nothing but his hope.What if Phasma survived as well? How far is he willing to go to find his best friend? And does he really deserve a happy ending?
Relationships: Armitage Hux & Phasma, Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	kitchen sink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyglass/gifts).



> there's a playlist to this!
> 
> [here it is!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4nDGhUwFtwDdbDw8L7junD?si=3LmE1lrMRaivZqthePDuHA/)

(it always starts up there) 

_ hold my hand, it's a long way down to the bottom of the river _

[lyrics taken from “bottom of the river” by Delta Rae] 

Pryde’s sink in the kitchen doesn't supply hot water unless you heat it up first. Hux readily accepts the distraction and stares down on his used mug while the heater’s noise fills his ears. For a couple of seconds that's all there is, his mug, the static in his ears, the cold floor underneath his feet. He allows the sensation to swallow him up, to cast him out of reality. It’s calming, to disappear for a couple of seconds. 

Then Pryde speaks up again. 

“You don't have to do that. I can do that after dinner, there's no use in heating up water just for your cup.”

Hux shakes his head, even though the man won't see him in the kitchen cell. The static keeps getting louder until it drowns out even Pryde's polite voice. He's too polite, he smiles too much, he keeps checking Hux' stomach with his eyes like he expects the blaster wound to be alive still, to bleed out on his carpet.  _ Paranoid,  _ Hux thinks. Like he has been caught. 

_ You can't find someone who doesn't want to be found, _ Pryde had said, in his careful, guilty voice, while looking down in his cup like it wasn't Hux who had asked about Phasma but his bright blue mug. 

_ You didn't want to be found either and yet I found you, _ Hux had replied. Pryde had looked down on the blaster wound again, or the memory of it. 

_ That's different.  _

He hadn't explained what he meant by that and Hux hadn't asked either. 

The water has finally heated up. Hux grabs the dish soap and gives it a tiny squeeze, then he gets to work. It doesn't take long to wash a single cup but he does it carefully, almost gently. He has long noticed the pattern on it but he looks at it again, tiny stars.  _ No horse print, _ he had said when Pryde had poured the caff into it. Pryde had lifted his head and had hastily stopped pouring the drink because his hands had shaken enough for him to spill the caff everywhere. Hux had felt the same way, disturbed, distraught, unsure where that knowledge came from. He didn't know things about Pryde. He still doesn't. He didn’t offer his help, he just watched Pryde storming into the kitchen to get paper towels. Even after he returned, Hux had found it impossible to move, to offer his head, to disturb the bizarre domesticity behind the man wiping his living room table. 

Once Hux no longer has an excuse to scrub the mug, he grabs a kitchen towel and dries it. 

“Where do the mugs go?” he asks loudly. 

“The top cupboard on the left-” Pryde replies. “Wait, I told you not to—”

There's steps and all of sudden Hux can't breathe. Something about Pryde just showing up, turning to him, giving him his undivided attention for once, makes him live through the memory again, the feeling of being catapulted across the bridge—

The feeling vanishes the second he looks into Pryde's apologetic eyes, the man makes a step back and lifts his hands so that Hux can see them. He has to look at the man’s palms for a couple of seconds before the shaking stops. No blaster. 

“Thank you,” Pryde says after what feels an eternity. “You didn't have to do that.” 

No apology. Of course not, people like Pryde don't apologize. His apologies have to be meaningful, they have to be perfect enough. At least that's how Hux sees them. That's how he grew up thinking about the Empire. They don't apologize. They feel like they deserve to make mistakes just like that, like their existence doesn't mean being indebted to the universe forever. 

People like Pryde are not sorry for existing. People like Pryde don't feel like the galaxy deserves to burn for doing him wrong. 

“I'm sorry.”

Hux jumps. 

“What for?” he asks, a hint of anger in his voice. He has called that passion, long ago. His fingers are damp from the hot water, he doesn't bother wiping them on his clothes. 

“For scaring you,” Pryde says like it's obvious. Maybe it is. 

After all, the blaster shot wasn't personal. Not personal enough to use a weapon of his own. Not personal enough to look him in the eye while he did it. Pryde did his job. 

There's no telling what Hux would've done if he had been in the same position. That's why he's here. 

“You don't have to apologize for  _ that,” _ Hux tells him. “Tell me where she is, you have to know, you—” 

What,  _ know everything? _ There had been a time when Hux had believed this. Right when he had believed that Pryde was force sensitive. He's not sure what to believe now. What he's feeling right now is hope. 

Pryde looks down on his fingers. It's the first thing Hux has noticed about him, the ring on the scarred skin. He has never bothered to ask before but he can't help but wonder if he is married, if he had been married back then, if exile has turned him into a romantic. 

“It's a long way down,” Pryde finally says. His voice trembles with horror but he doesn’t reveal too much. The way he says it makes it seem like a simple fact. 

Right. Just like Hux, Pryde was assumed dead. Judging by the fading scars on his face, his hands, his entire body, presumably, it must have been an explosion. Like Phasma's fall. 

“I could've caught her,” Hux replies. “I need to find her now.” 

He doesn't say  _ should've.  _ That's a given. As her friend, as her ally, he should've saved her. But that's not what keeps him awake at night. What keeps him up, what keeps him running, is that he  _ could have done it.  _ If he had only stayed a little bit longer. 

Pryde's eyes dart to the kitchen towel. He frowns, like the next words are somehow hard for him. 

“If I help you,” he starts, shakes his head. “No. No if. I will help you.”

Hux doesn't thank him for this. He feels like he's supposed to, and that makes it impossible. He's reminded of the moment, just an hour ago, when he had finally gathered the courage to knock on what he had been sure was Pryde's door. Pryde had opened the door, a polite smile on his face that had frozen right when their eyes had met. Hux remembers thinking,  _ he still has those eyes,  _ like he expected those eyes to change. It made things easier, it still does. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Pryde asks now. “Of course if you want to leave now, I can pack my things—”

“No, it's alright. I can wait until tomorrow,” Hux hears himself saying. 

They're so polite. Like the First Order never existed, like they're awkward coworkers after a long day of working at the office. Like all they did is pressing buttons all day, like ordering the galaxy to be blown into pieces isn't going to actually do it. (It's stupid to think that they wouldn't get caught up in an explosion sooner or later. Pryde did.)

Hux can't say he doesn't enjoy this. It's something he is very good at. Maneuvering himself through the dangers of politics, making sure that his enemies will never get close to him. Smiling. Becoming powerful enough to be untouchable. It has been his life for so long, why hope for an escape, for a change? Maybe this is all there ever is. 

He opens the cupboard and places the mug next to the others. Every other dinnerware item seems to belong to the same set but the mugs are a - deliberate? - disturbance in that order. Hux has no time to think about if there may be symbolism behind this. 

“I can show you the guest room,” Pryde says. “If you want, you can wait in there while I cook—”

“You are married, aren’t you?” Hux asks because he suddenly lost interest in playing the polite politics game. 

He finds it surprisingly easy to interrupt this man. Perhaps because he had wanted to do this ever since the first time he watched those blue eyes grow intense with discontent, when those lips had spit out the words “Starkiller Base” and “error” in the same sentence. That had done it for Hux. (The more rational part of his brain had offered him that maybe, just maybe, Kylo Ren had wanted them to hate each other. That he had brought up the generals against each other, so they wouldn’t have time to overthrow him. This had made sense but Hux had been too angry to listen to his last remaining brain cells. The voice inside his head, the one that was right, always spoke with  _ her  _ voice. He hadn’t been ready to listen to her yet.)

“Ah,” Pryde says, obviously uncomfortable. 

Good. That’s what he deserves for using the phrase  _ guest bedroom.  _

“It's complicated,” Pryde says, at last. There's something in his eyes that Hux can't place at first, then it hits him. It's no surprise that he's not used to  _ fondness  _ on Pryde's face but it's there, very raw, very unapologetic, although the man does his best to hide it. 

“It sounds very easy to me,” Hux says. “Are you married or not?” 

“No.” 

_ But.  _ There is a but. Because Pryde is wearing a ring, a nice one, that he is trying to cover up with his fingers when Hux stares down in it. Unlike before, his stares are very upfront now. 

“Is she still alive?” Hux asks bluntly. 

A slight frown crosses Pryde's face but when he looks up into Hux' eyes again, he's smiling. 

“He is,” he replies. 

For once, Hux is speechless. He lets the man guide him to the guest bedroom (nice, flower print on the walls, one single painting of a horse hanging above the bed) and nods when Pryde asks him if he wants to drink something. It feels wrong to just sit down on the bed, that's why Hux does it. Deliberate disrespect. Kylo Ren would've loved that. 

_ Kylo Ren is dead,  _ Hux reminds himself. And the galaxy is still intact. Part of Hux had expected Ren to make a great exit, and once he left, there wouldn't be a galaxy left to rule. 

This obviously didn't happen. Part of Hux knows that Ren is dead, just like he knows Phasma is alive. Those are the rules. 

And also, he thinks, looking at the horse painting, Pryde is  _ sort of  _ married to a man. That thought takes up Hux' entire brain for a while, he allows it to fill him up until he finds an appropriate place in the file named “Pryde, Enric”. Not Allegiant General Pryde, not anymore. Now he's Pryde, Enric, and Hux has just found out that he's into men. Or at least one man, anyway. He has to ask about it later. 

He thinks about Kylo Ren again. What else should he do now, trapped in a home that is more than Pryde ever deserved, happier than any of them deserve. You don't threaten to blow up the galaxy, just to live happily ever after. He cannot sit on this bed, this comfortable, normal bed, without his mind traveling to the first man he looked at and fell for. Just a little bit. Looking at Kylo Ren hadn't been all painful at first. 

It's easily overlooked. Hux likes to overlook it himself. He wants to forget about Kylo Ren altogether because Kylo Ren would never have made him happy enough to make him  _ smile _ when he looked at a wedding ring. Engagement ring. Whatever it is. Sometimes heartbreak is easier to deal with when he imagines that he never had a heart to break in the first place. 

Pryde takes his time, which means that he's cooking, actually cooking real food, and not just rations. Something in Hux' stomach burns at the thought, crawls up his body and settles down as pain in his throat. How dare him. How dare him. The air tastes like meat and greens, things that were luxury up in space. They didn't need it. Why now? Does Pryde honestly believe that he deserves this? Who does he think he is? 

If Pryde deserves it, so does Hux. If Pryde deserves to have a ring, Hux deserves his best friend. 

He deserves—

Steps in the hallway. Hux sits up and tenses. If Pryde takes offense at him sitting on the bed, he doesn’t show it. He even has the audacity to smile at him. 

“Would you like caff for dinner?” he asks. Hux has the urge to punch him. Maybe he'd feel better if he did that. Getting that out of the way once. The Pryde who hung up a kriffing  _ horse painting  _ would not mind. He probably has this twisted urge to be punished, to be kicked, like this makes up for his life full of sins. Yes, Pryde is the kind of person to act all remorseful because it makes him feel better about himself. 

The man has changed clothes; what had been a simple black robe before, close enough to his former uniform, Hux didn’t even notice a difference, is now a blue sweater. It matches the color of his eyes, Hux thinks and hates himself for it. 

“Yes,” Hux replies. He doesn’t intend to sleep. Not in here. He can never trust Pryde enough for this, no matter how nicely he dresses or what he cooks. Pryde is a tool to him, a pawn, and he can never be more. 

“Alright,” Pryde says. When he turns around again, Hux jumps to his feet and follows him. 

“Do you think I’ll just forgive you for what you did?” he asks once they have reached the kitchen. 

Pryde prepares the caff in silence before he replies. For a moment, Hux convinces himself that he’s never going to get a reply, that Pryde hasn’t truly changed and that Hux just gambled away every kindness he can ever expect from this man. He almost convinces himself that this is it, that Pryde will pull back the offer to help him, that he will throw Hux out, maybe shoot again. 

Pryde puts down the mug in front of Hux. It’s the same cup, blue, tiny stars, and Hux can’t help but feel attachment to it. This is  _ his  _ cup now. 

“Is that something you want?” Pryde asks. “Do you want to forgive me?”

“No!” He almost spits it out. This is how he talks, if nobody holds him back. This is passion in its purest, true form, words, falling apart on his tongue. With every word he spits out, Hux feels alive. 

“Thank you for being honest with me, I will be honest in return,” Pryde says. Hux notices that his smile freezes on his face when he says it and he doesn’t look him in the eye. He braces himself for what comes next. Pryde isn’t a cruel man, that’s what makes being around him so insufferable. He’s a man who served the Empire and then the First Order. He is what his time made him to be. Hux is willing to believe that this is the kind of man he’d be if he never joined the Navy or wherever he worked with before. 

But he’s not. The Final Order is on him and him alone. 

“I am not being kind to you to beg for your forgiveness. That would imply that I expect you to forgive me. I don’t.”

“Then why this,” Hux breathes. 

He hates this. Anger crawls on his skin, silences his thoughts, burns in his stomach. 

Pryde fills up his own mug and turns to the stove to make sure his dinner doesn’t burn. It’s less elaborate than Hux has assumed, tiny fried nuggets, toasted bread and vegetables he hasn’t seen outside an educational book. 

No matter how long Hux waits, he doesn’t get a reply. Pryde puts down one sliced half of his bread, stacks three nuggets on it and puts down the other half of bread on top of it. Hux feels enough rage to flip the table. Pryde does not deserve this. Pryde does not deserve to be this happy, this endearing. And Hux doesn’t even want to know, he doesn’t want to know the man’s eating habits, he doesn’t want to know about the mismatched mugs in the cupboard, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to see any of it. 

“Do you want one too?” Pryde asks. 

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

He’s being difficult on purpose, and he can see in Pryde’s eyes that he’s aware of it. Hux doesn’t know how to work around people who are kind for the sake of it. He knows how to navigate himself through a pit of vipers, that’s all he can do. 

“Please tell me if you changed your mind,” Pryde says, and that’s all. He turns off the stove, puts down the remaining nuggets and the rest of the food on a plate and then grabs his own meal. Hux nods, not sure how to take this. 

They sit down in silence, Hux sips his caff and watches Pryde eat his self-made burger with more grace than people usually exhibit when eating a burger. Needless to say, Hux is jealous. 

“Do you regret any of it?” Hux asks. 

It’s almost hilarious. Two war criminals sipping caff in the kitchen. 

Pryde doesn’t answer him this time. 

* * *

It’s nighttime now. Hux refused the sleeping wear Pryde has put onto his bed because he isn’t ready to take a peace offering yet. He took a towel and a toothbrush, mostly out of spite. Him sitting on the bed and staring at the tiny slash of air in the space between the door and the hallway is spite too. At least he likes to think that. He can hear Pryde working in the kitchen, probably doing the dishes. 

After a few minutes, the steps wander through the hallway and stop in a room next to Hux. 

And he really doesn’t  _ want _ to listen. His spy days are long over. Besides, Pryde is obviously trying to protect whoever he is married to. Almost married. But redemption is a luxury long out of reach, so Hux sits up straighter and eavesdrops. 

_ “You have to be patient with me, my love,”  _ Pryde says.  _ “I’m going to be gone for a few days. I left you the puzzles from the newspaper, although I am very sure you’ll find them unworthy of your time. I did not solve a single one of them.” _

A chuckle. Hux feels a chill creeping down his back. It’s the first time he hears Pryde laughing. Perhaps knowing that this isn’t meant for his ears is what makes him feel… not guilty but undeserving. 

_ “You will also find details of my trip, I coded the messages and I have to ask you not to share them with anyone. Please don’t worry too much. We will meet again. And if we don’t… I am very grateful that you were a second chance I did not deserve.” _

It’s pretty much impossible to sleep after this. 

* * *

“Did you sleep well?” Pryde asks in the morning. Whatever private moment Hux is sure to have caught last night is nowhere to be found now. Pryde is appropriately dressed for a trip, it’s black uniform-like robes again and what seems to be a little pin in rainbow colors right on his chest. Hux refuses to look at it longer than he has to. 

“Can we leave now?” he asks. 

He feels something very close to respect when Pryde doesn’t complain about skipping breakfast. In fact, he seems to be prepared for this; there’s a backpack waiting next to his shoes but right next to it a bag that looks like it’s filled with food for the trip. 

“I have an idea of where to go next but I have to be certain that you cooperate. I am certain that you understand the gravity of the situation, and the fact that you are willing to ask me for help implies that you will not cause any trouble, but I have to ask.”

Hux knows what he is thinking. He has thought about this before. But something held him back,some kind of pressure that isn’t present when Pryde suggests it. If it’s Pryde’s idea, he cannot be blamed for it. He can use Pryde as a shield to guard him from all the consequences. 

“Personally I think that in order to find her, we can start in the beginning,” Pryde continues. 

_ We will meet again. And if we don’t… _

It makes more sense now. Pryde expects the resistance to kill him and Hux is going to let him. 

“I will cooperate,” Hux says. 

Because what other option does he have?

* * *

“I don’t know who did it,” Hux tells Pryde. “We rescued security footage of her fall, that’s all.”

Pryde frowns like he’s trying to put together the memory of something he wasn’t present for. He has occupied the pilot seat but he’s not steering the ship. It’s a small one, an Empire, perhaps even Republic, model that shouldn’t be allowed to fly. Pryde has a license, he showed Hux before they entered the ship. Hux had laughed about this, this is where the bar is? A war criminal legally owns a spaceship? And just like everything else, the painting, the mugs in the kitchen, the ship feels like it belongs to a stranger. Hux wishes he had gotten to know this Pryde instead of… a punishment. That’s what Kylo Ren had used him for. A tool to mock Hux, to infuriate him, to scare him. 

Pryde waits a couple of seconds like a teacher who is certain that his student already knows the answer, before he says, deliberately, “No, you also rescued security footage of the execution that was supposed to happen shortly before she went missing.” 

Who could’ve thought that a traitor Hux defended back then, a traitor he attempted to shield from Kylo Ren’s wrath, turned out to be the murderer of his best friend. No, not murderer. He wasn’t successful. 

After all those years, after all that time, FN-2187 still has control over him. Ways to ruin his life. That, or the girl they captured with him but Hux knows that this is very much impossible. No, FN-2187 had it out for Phasma from the start; in his eyes, Phasma was everything that had been wrong with the First Order. And this is so wrong, wrong enough for Hux to feel a faint hint of his old passion, the urge to ramble about it. 

If anything, Phasma is everything they did  _ right  _ with the First Order. If FN-2187 bothered enough to learn where Phasma came from…

No, he knows where it ends when a trooper tries to find out about Phasma’s backstory. Hux once loved his army to death, once, but experience had taught him to be cautious. He has been betrayed once. He has done his best to solve this issue but it has resulted in an assassination attempt on Phasma, then a sucessful escape and he still has no idea if this threat is still out there. No, that's not right. He's dead. He has to be dead. This murder mystery has to be  _ finished.  _ Because if it isn't, if the war ended but Phasma's story didn't, Hux has no idea what to do now. Thinking about it makes the fear worse. Fear, paranoia, both, it builds up and suffocates him. 

_ How does it feel to be at the bottom of the  _ _ river _ _ burning ship and feel the explosion slowly embracing you?  _

Breathing comes harder now. Hux stares down on his lap and closes his eyes. Blood rushes in his ears and for a split second he wonders if Pryde will take offense that his reaction is so intense…

“I need you to open your eyes,” a voice says, gently. Of course it’s Pryde, there’s nobody else here, but with his eyes closed, it seems like nobody else. When Hux doesn’t react or follow that order, there’s a small sigh. That’s more like it, Hux thinks and suppresses the hysterical giggle stuck in his throat. He knows how to handle an annoyed Pryde. Better than a nice one. 

“Do you need something to drink?”

Hux doesn’t want to open his eyes yet but he knows that having a breakdown in front of his enemy is the best way to get him killed. He nods and just a moment later, he feels a bottle in his hands. 

“Careful, I already opened it for you,” Pryde says. 

Hux nods. He drinks and feels himself calming down. After a couple of minutes he opens his eyes again. Pryde isn’t looking at him, he has put the bag with food on his lap and reaches for something in it. Hux takes the time to look at him. People are always different when they think nobody is watching them, and Pryde is no different. He seems almost happy when he retrieves a wrapped nutrient bar. It’s the kind Hux likes, the one he is used to, and - to be honest - this is the one First Order thing he truly misses. 

“Do you want one too?” he asks, still not looking into Hux’ direction. He wonders how long Pryde has been aware that he has been watching him. 

By now Hux is fairly certain that the water wasn’t poisoned, so he says, “Yes.”

They eat in silence. Hux isn't sure if he's supposed to thank Pryde for it, and even if he wanted to, the word has already repeated so often in his head that it feels wrong on his tongue. He smiles a little bit and hopes that that counts as a thanks too. 

“I never understood the appeal of cooking,” Pryde says after crumbling his wrapper and stuffing it back into his bag. 

“You cooked last night.” 

“To be polite!” 

That's more emotion than he has ever heard from the man. He almost seems offended that his attempt at being a good host gets questioned like that. Hux fights the urge to smile. 

“And also,” Pryde says in a voice that suggests that this isn't the first time he thinks about this topic, “I read about the conditions on the farms where they harvest the ingredients for those and— ah, excuse me.” 

“And?” Hux asks because this man just rescued him from a panic attack and looks genuinely upset about farming conditions. 

“Well, that's an aspect of the Empire I find…” 

“Unwise?” Hux asks, a hint of a smile on his lips. That's about as direct as he expects Pryde to get when criticizing his beloved Empire. 

“I wanted to say  _ unforgivable.” _

Oh, so he's  _ mad _ about this. Hux has never seen Pryde this upset, not even when he realized that Hux had replaced Brendol Hux. (That's how they say it now, like he's still on vacation or whatever official excuse they used.) 

“So, you can excuse genocide but you draw the line at treating farmers badly?” Hux asks, just to be sure. He wants to laugh, so badly. 

“I draw the line at— first of all, I did not support project Stardust or Starkiller, I think it's a waste of resources in every way—” 

“Ah, that's why you built the army of killer Star Destroyers, each one of them capable of destroying planets,” Hux interrupts him. He enjoys this. 

Pryde shoots him a look that is so icy that Hux flinches. He seems to realize his mistake and his face grows soft again. His voice, however, is still stained with passion. Hux has no other way to describe it. While passion is his only driving force, it feels like a bloodstain on Pryde's tongue. 

“There's a difference between intimidating techniques and blowing up an entire system.” 

“If you wanted to scare them, you could've built  _ one _ of those. Speaking of wasting resources.” 

Pryde stares. Hux is very certain that he is going to murder him right then and there. But instead he laughs. 

“You're right,” Pryde says. 

Something burns in Hux' stomach, a soft sensation, maybe burning is the wrong word for it. It's more like a glow, a gentle warmth, like a blanket on cold evenings back on Arkanis. He didn't feel this in a long time. 

_ You're right, you're right, you're right.  _

Really, he might enjoy praise a bit too much. 

* * *

Hux must’ve fallen asleep because he wakes up in an empty ship, a name on his lips that he hasn’t called out ever since she fell. He vowed to never use her name again, to have the last time he addressed her buried with the memory of his last genuine smile. He swallows it, savors the bitter aftertaste and carefully looks around. Someone -  _ someone _ , as if there was anyone but Pryde around - has put something in his lap. It takes Hux a second to identify it as a jacket. 

He feels sick, all of sudden. He pushes the jacket from his lap and pushes himself up. They’re no longer in space but the ship’s windows are darkened to let no light in. Pryde obviously expected him to need the rest - it’s embarrassing that he allowed himself to be vulnerable like that. Hux fumbles with the ship’s door and finally manages to push it open. He hesitates, allows himself to wait for a couple of seconds, to take in the silence, the feeling of being alone, lonely, both. 

Not for long. He has to move on, after all. If he stops, if he allows himself to rest, if he allows himself to stay, he will never get up again. 

He has no idea what time it is or where they are, so it’s not really a shock to him when it’s dark outside. The air is breathable but slightly static, no that’s not the right word, but maybe it describes it perfectly. It feels too clean to be genuine, like the filtered air in a Star Destroyer. He doesn’t need another clue to find out where they are. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to take bets on who Pryde's husband is. The prize is... my undying love and admiration and a 500 words fic of your choosing.  
> (I wonder if anyone even cares about this)


End file.
